“Thunder!  What are you thinking of?  Go and ask him for three hundred dollars and odd?  What would I tell him I want it for, pray?”

Roxy’s answer was delivered in a serene and level voice.

“You’ll tell him you’s sole me to pay yo’ gamblin’ debts en dat you lied to me en was a villain, en dat I ’quires you to git dat money en buy me back ag’in.”

“Why, you’ve gone stark mad!  He would tear the will to shreds in a minute—­don’t you know that?”

“Yes, I does.”

“Then you don’t believe I’m idiot enough to go to him, do you?”

“I don’t b’lieve nothin’ ‘bout it—­I KNOWS you’s a-goin’.  I knows it ’ca’se you knows dat if you don’t raise dat money I’ll go to him myself, en den he’ll sell YOU down de river, en you kin see how you like it!”

Tom rose, trembling and excited, and there was an evil light in his eye.  He strode to the door and said he must get out of this suffocating place for a moment and clear his brain in the fresh air so that he could determine what to do.  The door wouldn’t open.  Roxy smiled grimly, and said: 

“I’s got the key, honey—­set down.  You needn’t cle’r up yo’ brain none to fine out what you gwine to do—­I knows what you’s gwine to do.”  Tom sat down and began to pass his hands through his hair with a helpless and desperate air.  Roxy said, “Is dat man in dis house?”

Tom glanced up with a surprised expression, and asked: 

“What gave you such an idea?”

“You done it.  Gwine out to cle’r yo’ brain!  In de fust place you ain’t got none to cle’r, en in de second place yo’ ornery eye tole on you.  You’s de lowdownest hound dat ever—­but I done told you dat befo’.  Now den, dis is Friday.  You kin fix it up wid dat man, en tell him you’s gwine away to git de res’ o’ de money, en dat you’ll be back wid it nex’ Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday.  You understan’?”

Tom answered sullenly:  “Yes.”

“En when you gits de new bill o’ sale dat sells me to my own self, take en send it in de mail to Mr. Pudd’nhead Wilson, en write on de back dat he’s to keep it tell I come.  You understan’?”

“Yes.”

“Dat’s all den.  Take yo’ umbreller, en put on yo’ hat.”

“Why?”

“Beca’se you’s gwine to see me home to de wharf.  You see dis knife?  I’s toted it aroun’ sence de day I seed dat man en bought dese clo’es en it.  If he ketch me, I’s gwine to kill myself wid it.  Now start along, en go sof’, en lead de way; en if you gives a sign in dis house, or if anybody comes up to you in de street, I’s gwine to jam it right into you.  Chambers, does you b’lieve me when I says dat?”

“It’s no use to bother me with that question.  I know your word’s good.”

“Yes, it’s diff’rent from yo’n!  Shet de light out en move along—­here’s de key.”

They were not followed.  Tom trembled every time a late straggler brushed by them on the street, and half expected to feel the cold steel in his back.  Roxy was right at his heels and always in reach.  After tramping a mile they reached a wide vacancy on the deserted wharves, and in this dark and rainy desert they parted.